


deus deceptor

by Jothowrote



Category: X-Men: First Class (2011) - Fandom
Genre: Dark!Charles, Dubious Ethics, Emotional Manipulation, M/M, Mind Control, kind of, nonconsensual captivity
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-04
Updated: 2014-05-04
Packaged: 2018-01-21 21:53:46
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,530
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1565366
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jothowrote/pseuds/Jothowrote
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It strikes him, suddenly, on a perfect summer’s day, after a perfect picnic lunch, that his life really is perfect.</p><p>That night, he dreams of a beach.</p><p>This beach isn’t perfect. There’s death, and the threat of annihilation, and pain and suffering. All he knows is anger and bitterness, and Charles is crying out in pain…</p><p>He wakes abruptly, and Charles is stroking the hair off his sweaty forehead.</p><p>[It was just a dream, Erik. Just a bad dream]</p>
            </blockquote>





	deus deceptor

Erik wakes up, and feels content.

The sun is falling across the bed in wide, bright strips. It's an idyllic morning; birdsong and childish laughter drifts in from the open window. A soft breeze makes the curtains sway. Beside him, Charles sleeps on.

Erik is warm, and comfortable, lying on the bed with the morning sunlight warming his bare skin. He knows he could, quite happily, stay there forever. His mind is calm, his pains have all gone. He feels complete.

A particularly high screech from outside wakes his companion.

'What time is it?' Charles murmurs, blinking up at Erik.

'It's not late,' he says. 'I thought we deserved to sleep in today.'

‘Erik.’

Charles has the singular gift of looking both stern and pleased, Erik thinks. Charles raises himself onto his elbows and looks down at him.

[We have work to do] 

‘There is always work to do,’ Erik says. ‘It can wait.’

Because right now Charles is next to him, sleep-warm and soft, and Erik wants to make the most of it.

\----

Back when the work had been life-or-death, when they were still fighting for their freedom, sleepy sunlit moments of peace were few and far between. Despite their present regularity, Erik still remembers the years of darkness and uncertainty.

Although, with each sun-soaked morning, waking up with Charles in his arms, he feels the memories fade.

Erik was quite happy to let himself forget. All he needed, he had; mutants were the leading force in the world, running governments and countries, while humans were few and far between. They had achieved mutant supremacy. In his Nazi-hunting days, during his single-minded obsession with Shaw, Erik had never dreamed he would achieve inner peace. Sometimes it takes him by surprise, just how happy he is.

‘Enjoy it,’ Charles says, every time he catches the disbelief swirling around Erik’s mind. ‘You deserve it, love. No one deserves it more than you.’

So now Erik Lensherr, orphan and mutant and holocaust survivor, lives an idyllic life.

He stays with Charles at the Westchester house, where Charles still takes in young mutants anxious to learn how to control their powers. Erik has little to do with the school, apart from occasionally dealing with the odd trouble-maker. Sean would never have learnt how to fly if Erik hadn't shoved him off that platform, after all.

He travels to and from most governments and ruling agencies around the world, employing Azazel’s services as a personal taxi service. He uses Hank's jet for longer journeys. He keeps up relations with the people in charge, just to keep everything ticking along. He’s finally got his paradise – he’s not going to let it fall apart from neglect. Charles helps where he can, but he simply doesn’t have the edge of a politician. Erik isn’t afraid to break a few eggs.

It strikes him, suddenly, on a perfect summer’s day, after a perfect picnic lunch, that his life really is perfect.

That night, he dreams of a beach.

This beach isn’t perfect. There’s death, and the threat of annihilation, and pain and suffering. All he knows is anger and bitterness, and Charles is crying out in pain…

He wakes abruptly, and Charles is stroking the hair off his sweaty forehead.

[It was just a dream, Erik. Just a bad dream]

It doesn’t take long for Erik to fall back asleep, and in the perfect, sun-drenched morning, he forgets all about the nightmare.

\----

Another week, another month, and Erik stops waiting for the other shoe to drop.

\----

He’s descending into the basement, where Hank and Charles are building a new Cerebro in the nuclear bunker, and feeling unusually edgy. Nothing had gone wrong in his talks with the CIA, but it hadn’t exactly gone to plan, either. He felt itchy and anxious in his skin, but the all-metal bunker always made him feel safe. Not to mention Charles’s presence.

He walks into the lab and sees Charles wearing the headpiece with Hank hovering nearby. For a moment his tired brain tries to overlay another image above the one it receives from his eyes.

He can see Charles, standing, but his brain is trying to show him Charles sitting down.

‘Erik?’

Charles’s voice pierces through his momentary confusion – both he and Hank are staring at Erik with worried looks on their faces.

‘I’m fine,’ he says, but Charles has already disconnected from the machine and is hurrying across the length of the room. When he reaches up, Erik leans his face into Charles’s hand.

‘Are you sure?’ Charles is frowning. Erik wants to smooth away the lines on his forehead.

[You look tired, love]

[Maybe you should take me to bed]

Charles blushes, and casts a guilty look over at Hank. Hank is, of course, completely oblivious and fiddling with Cerebro.

‘Are you sure you’re alright?’ Charles asks later, over chess.

‘Yes – just tired,’ Erik replies, and he smiles. ‘Check.’

\----

The past is slipping away from him, fading into darkness, and Erik struggles to claw it back.

He wakes up clawing at the bed sheets, thrashing around on the bed and fighting off Charles attempts to calm him down.

‘I’m forgetting everything,’ he says, when he has finally stopped fighting whatever invisible demon his unconscious mind had tried so hard to kill.

‘Is that such a bad thing?’ Charles asks.

‘Yes.’

Erik forces the word through gritted teeth, and he draws away from Charles’s outstretched hand. He doesn’t want to forget the hardships, because although he now lives a perfect life, he never wants to forget the price of it.

‘I’m sorry,’ Charles says. 

Erik ignores him, and although they fall asleep in the same bed, there are acres of space between them.

They wake tangled in each other’s arms, and Erik feels better in the light of a new day.

\----

The beach dream becomes more and more frequent, and Erik can remember details now and then.

He asks Charles about it, and Charles waves it away as a nightmare.

‘Trust me,’ he says. ‘I know the difference between nightmares and memories.’

It’s a strange thing to say, Erik thinks, because he never though the beach might be a memory – but he trusts Charles. He trusts him as he has never trusted anyone else, and so he doesn’t mention it anymore.

Charles always seems to know, the morning after a beach dream, but they don’t talk about it anymore and Erik can try and forget.

\----

Erik practices on the large satellite dish, because he likes to keep in shape both physically and mentally.

It is always a little harder on the days after a nightmare.

[Remember, Erik; between rage and serenity]

Charles approaches behind him. Erik can sense the metal in his cuff-links and his shoes, but there’s a gap, a hole that needs filling.

‘Charles,’ he says, still focusing on the satellite dish, ‘where’s your wheelchair?’

‘Wheelchair, Erik?’

Erik lets go of the satellite and turns to see Charles frowning at him, standing on his own two feet and looking perfectly healthy.

‘Sorry,’ he said, shaking his head. ‘I don’t know why I…’

Charles just stared at him with deep, unfathomable blue eyes.

‘Sorry,’ Erik says again, shaking his head slightly, ‘what was I saying again?’

‘You were having trouble moving the satellite dish,’ Charles says, stepping up close behind him. ‘Remember,’ he says, his lips brushing the back of Erik’s neck, ‘between rage and serenity.’

Erik holds out his hand, and tries again.

The satellite dish moves with ease.

‘You’re so wonderful, Erik,’ Charles says, and he sounds sad.

Erik doesn’t ask why, and just kisses him.

\----

Time passes in a haze of golden mornings and softly lit evening games of chess, and Erik begins to feel hollow. He’s so happy, all the time, but there’s something lurking deep in his chest. There’s a dark chasm somewhere, and he’s so tired waiting for it to open beneath his feet.

This feeling is reflected sometimes in the depths of Charles’s eyes.

[You’re not happy]

Erik had been rolling a pawn between his thumb and forefinger, staring at the board but not actually seeing it.

‘I’m tired,’ he replies, not looking at Charles.

‘Tired of what?’ 

‘Tired of waiting for all this,’ he gestures, vaguely, to Charles and the window and the dimly lit room, ‘for all this to disappear.’

Charles sighs.

‘Erik,’ he says, and he sounds like his heart is breaking. ‘I promise you it will never disappear. That you will always be this happy.’

‘How can you promise that?’ Erik asks. His voice cracks embarrassingly. 

Charles moves from his chair. He kneels in front of Erik, grasping his head with both hands and pressing their foreheads together.

‘I promise,’ he whispers. ‘I love you, Erik.’

It’s not enough, but it’s something.

\----

He wakes up shouting for the third day in a row. Charles does what he can to calm him, and Erik relaxes only when Charles’s telepathic voice echoes around in his head. It mutes everything else.

He doesn’t do any work that day – instead, he goes for a walk. Charles offers to come with him, but Erik declines.

‘I just need a little time to myself,’ he says, and looks away from Charles’s disappointed face.

In the fresh air, Erik finds he can think more clearly. The beach dream, he is beginning to realise, is not a dream. It’s too clear, to precise, too determined to ruin his sleep. Erik concludes it must be a memory.

But this is impossible, because Charles is in the memory, and if it truly was a memory, why would Charles not remember?

Erik sits down on a grassy hill, closes his eyes against the chilly breeze and tries to organise his timeline in his head.  
He starts to panic when nothing matches up.

He knows he killed Shaw – he can feel the vengeance sweet and heavy in his chest – but he can’t remember how. It’s not something he would forget. He also struggles to remember the details of how exactly their mutant paradise on Earth came to be; he can’t remember how any of it happened.

In fact, his clearest memory is of leaving Charles lying in the sand on a beach.

This life, then– this golden haze of happiness – is no more than a façade. They’re trapped in this perfect world, while who knows what is going on outside. The work of a telepath, no doubt, or maybe even some other kind of mutation to do with fantasies and hallucinations. 

Erik can see clearer now, in the cold air. He can’t trust this world, or any of the people in it – any of them could be the perpetrator. He would have to find some way to communicate their predicament to Charles without anyone overhearing.

As he heads back to the house, purpose springing his step, he buries the small, aching part of him that wanted the paradise to be real.  
He should have known better, right from the start. If he ever achieves a better world for mutants, he finds it unlikely he would be alive to enjoy it. 

\----

Erik uses the cover of a chess match to warn Charles of their predicament.

‘Careful; you’ll lose your bishop,’ he warns. Then, quieter,

[Charles, this isn’t real. Don’t say anything out loud – I don’t want them to know I’ve found out]

[Found out what… what are you talking about, Erik]

Charles stares at him, concerned for his mental well-being, but Erik presses on.

[This – all this – it isn’t real, Charles. That nightmare of the beach isn’t a nightmare; it’s a memory. One you can’t remember]

Charles stiffens, one hand hovering empty over the board.

[Erik… you can’t…]

[We must be in the thrall of a telepath, you and me, Charles. We need to get out of here]

Charles unstiffens, but his eyes are wet with tears.

[Oh, Erik]

‘Excuse me,’ Charles says, out loud, dabbing at his face with his hands. ‘It must be my allergies.’

Charles has no allergies. 

[Charles…]

[You’re… you’re right, Erik. There’s something about our memories that are wrong]

[Do you have any ideas about how we could fight it]

‘I’m tired,’ Charles says, giving a rather weak pantomime yawn. ‘Maybe we should continue with this game tomorrow.’

[Give me a little time, Erik]

Erik nods.

‘Come on, then,’ Charles says, extending a hand. Erik takes it, wrapping their fingers together. Charles; wonderful, real Charles. ‘Let’s go to bed.’

\----

In the morning, Erik finds his perfect life no longer feels so perfect. His food is cardboard, and even kissing Charles has lost its lustre. Erik is impatient for real life, now. He wants to kiss Charles with the rain pounding the windows, with the sky cloudy-grey. He’s sick of the dappled sunlight and the warm summer breeze.

[What do we do]

Charles takes a measured sip of his tea, while the hustle and bustle of breakfast at the house carries on around him. Erik watches the others chat and laugh and eat, and sees them for what they are. They are mere phantoms, plucked from his memories and fashioned into people. No wonder his days pass like seconds – the only thing real is Charles.

[I don’t know yet… but I think I might be starting to get an idea]

Erik takes a ferocious bite of toast, and waits.

\----

He waits patiently for two days, and impatiently for three more. Charles finally talks to him about their escape plan on the sixth day.

[We need to find the hole in this alternate reality] Charles explains. [Somewhere where the illusion runs thin. We can break out there. Every illusion has a starting point; an entrance wound]

[Do you know where that is]

[No idea, love]

Erik grunts in annoyance, and is curt towards Azazel for the rest of the day. He confuses Azazel, but Erik doesn’t care about an illusion’s feelings. He gets back to the house in a foul mood. 

[Tomorrow’s the weekend] he says to Charles as they lie in bed, pressed together as close as physically possible. [A good time to search for the weak spot]

[Yes] Charles says.

[You’re certain it’s in the house]

[This is the epicentre of the illusion. Where we spend most of our time. It’s where I’d put it, if it were me]

Erik weaves a coin between his fingers, and thinks. He tries to put himself into the mind-set of a telepath – where would he hide the weak spot?

Saturday yields nothing of value, and Erik falls into a restless sleep long before Charles sets aside his book.

When he wakes, it’s dark and cold, and the other side of the bed is empty.

[Charles]

There’s no answer. Erik looks around, and sees that the bed is a single, white and starched and clinical. The walls are blank, and a large, dark pane of glass in the wall seems to be watching him.

He can’t sense any metal.

And then, just as the panic rises hot and thick in his throat, he wakes again.

He wakes to soft sunlight and a warm summer breeze, and Charles snuffling in his sleep at his side.

\----

Erik is careful not to wake Charles when he slides out of bed and dresses hurriedly. He feels off-centre and stretched thin, and so he heads down to the bunker to think.

He feels safe in the bunker, encased with metal. The silence helps, too. Hank’s lab is empty, and Erik is completely alone. He feels peaceful for the first time he can remember in a long time. The nagging worry fades away.

And then it clicks.

Where would the telepath put the weak spot? Where Erik was least likely to sense it. Where he felt most at peace, and would thus not notice any discrepancies.

‘Erik.’

Erik whirls around, his heart pounding. Charles is standing there, looking so sad.

‘Charles, it’s here. The weak spot. It’s here.’

He walks forward, clasping Charles’s hands in his own and leaning their foreheads together.

‘Let’s get out of here,’ he says, and then he smiles and closes his eyes.

Nothing happens. Charles breathes raggedly, the air hitching in his chest, and Erik feels something icy cold slip down his spine. He draws away from Charles.

‘Charles…’ he whispers. ‘Why aren’t we going?’

‘Oh, my friend,’ Charles says, tears flowing freely from his sharp blue eyes now. ‘I am so, so sorry.’

Erik backs away until he hits the metal wall.

‘Charles,’ he says. ‘Charles, I trust you. I trusted you.’

‘Oh, Erik,’ Charles says, and he steps forward, reaches out a hand.

[No] Erik screams, and scrunches his eyes tight shut. The world flips and spins, and when he opens his eyes he’s lying on his back, tied to a bed, the tendons straining against the skin of his arms as he fights against his bonds.

A door somewhere outside of his immediate vision opens with a pneumatic hiss. He can hear the sound of wheels, and then Charles is there, Charles is laying a hand on his sweaty brow and sending him calming thoughts.

[Relax, love, relax]

‘Why are you doing this?’ Erik asks. ‘You’re the telepath, aren’t you? You're the one imprisoning me.'

‘I’m keeping you safe,’ Charles says. ‘I’m keeping you safe.’

‘I trusted you,’ Erik breathes.

\----

Later, when Erik calms down enough to stop trying to break his bonds, Charles wheels in and lays a hand on his arm.

This Charles – the real Charles – looks older than he had done in the illusion. His eyes are dimmer and lined, and his hair is thinning. Erik wonders if he, himself, looks like that – worn thin and grey from years.

‘How do I know this isn’t another illusion?’ Erik snaps. He’s pleased when Charles flinches.

‘Would I be in this bloody thing, if I didn’t have to be?’ he says, looking down at his wheelchair. ‘I promise you, Erik, this is real.’

‘Then where am I?’

‘At the house, in Westchester,’ Charles answers. ‘I convinced the CIA to let me take you home. With… certain conditions, of course.

‘You have to understand, Erik,’ he says, earnest. ‘I’m doing this to save your life. They were going to kill you and I…’

‘How is this better than death?’ Erik asks, pulling roughly against the wrist restraints. ‘Charles, how is this _better_?’

‘You can be happy, Erik. I just want you to be happy.’

Erik remembers, from inside the illusion, the false Charles promising an eternal paradise. It appears that it wasn’t just an empty promise at all.

‘So, this is the rest of my life?’ he asks. ‘Lying in this bed, living in an illusion?’

‘I have hope that when we get the bill passed in government, maybe I can arrange your release,’ Charles says. 

Erik can remember everything now. The beach, the dark years that followed, his own terrorist plans and eventual capture. And then, nothing but hazy summer days and _Charles Charles Charles_.

‘And when will that be?’ Erik spits. 

‘I have hope,’ is all that Charles says.

‘You know, Charles,’ Erik says, ‘I would never thought you capable of something so inhuman as this.’

Charles’s eyes turn flinty.

‘I do what I have to do to keep you alive, and happy,’ he says. ‘And if I have to trap you in an illusion, then so be it.’

Charles leaves Erik to his thoughts. The sound of the door sliding shut sounds like the gasp of a dying man.

Erik can remember waking before. He wonders how many times Charles has had to reconstruct the illusion after Erik breaks it apart.

[Too many, my friend] Charles says.

[Am I an idiot in all of them]

[What do you mean]

Erik takes a shaky breath.

[Do I always trust you]

There’s silence for a long while, and when Charles answers, he sounds as tired as he had looked.

[Yes]

\----

They play chess, but Charles has to move Erik’s pieces. His hands and legs are still bound, and he still can’t sense any metal, despite how far he reaches.

‘You won’t be able to escape,’ Charles says conversationally, as he captures Erik’s bishop. ‘You’ve tried. I know exactly how your mind works.’

Erik just frowns at the chess board.

‘Charles,’ he says, softly, when they've packed the board away. ‘Please – I can’t live like this. I can’t be a prisoner. Not again.’

Charles doesn’t look at him.

‘Charles, _please_.’

Charles leaves the room without looking back.

\----

‘Charles?’

[I’m so sorry, Erik]

Charles’ face is set like stone, his jaw tense and his eyes steel-bright and sharp. His hand descends onto Erik’s forehead, and though Erik fights and curses, he can’t move away. The darkness rises again.

\----

Erik wakes up, and feels content.

The sun is falling across the bed in wide, bright strips. It's an idyllic morning; birdsong and childish laughter drifts in from the open window. A soft breeze makes the curtains sway. Beside him, Charles sleeps on.

Erik is warm, and comfortable, lying on the bed with the morning sunlight warming his bare skin. He knows he could, quite happily, stay there forever. His mind is calm, his pains have all gone. He feels complete.


End file.
